


Fire in the Sky

by Alliterative_Albatross



Series: Catfish Blues [2]
Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: All Hail West Texas, Camping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, Outdoor Sex, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut, Stargazing, Truck Sex, frankie's silly hat, headcanons abound, mentions of infertility/pregnancy loss, soft frankie, that is NOT the focus of the fic but be aware
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:02:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28799547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alliterative_Albatross/pseuds/Alliterative_Albatross
Summary: Frankie shows you just how much he cares.
Relationships: Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Reader, Francisco "Catfish" Morales/You
Series: Catfish Blues [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2111541
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	Fire in the Sky

“I’m home!” you shout into the empty house, not surprised at all when nobody answers. 

You drop your bag carelessly onto the kitchen counter and head straight for you bedroom, shedding your business casual down the hallway as you go. Shoes, belt, pants, and bra all fall gracelessly to the floor. 

Much better.

First order of business is pajamas. Sure, it’s barely 6pm, but you’ve had a long, rough week at work and you are just dying to kick back and relax. 

Loungewear acquired, you shuffle back to the kitchen, climbing awkwardly onto the countertop to reach for the good crystal. The bottle of sangiovese that you’ve been ruminating on all day is a little fancier than your typical nightcap, but you decide you deserve it for balancing a full time job with full time classes, all while attempting to mend a strained marriage.

Well, strained probably isn’t the right word. Frankie’s coming around. It’s been a week since he’d had snapped out of that strange funk he’d been in ever since he’d come home from South America. You’d just been driving down the road, and out of nowhere, Frankie had swerved into the ditch and yanked you out of your seat, making love to you desperately in the bed of his truck. It might have been the hottest sex of your life - there’s something really appealing about watching a calm, competent man like Frankie Morales fall apart for you. 

Since then, things have been better. Frankie looks at you now, instead of through you. He doesn’t start conversations, but then again, he’d hardly ever done that, even when things were good. He helps out around the house, and sometimes, you can feel him watching you, the weight of his gaze heavy on your back in a way that makes you desperate to know what’s going on inside his head. 

Well, that’s a lost cause. Frankie plays his cards close, always has. 

You try really hard not to think about how the house is empty once again. Things were a little weird even before South America, between work and school and finances and the baby, and you’re terrified of falling back into that same old pattern of distance and silence.

Pushing those well-worn thoughts out of your mind, you flop down into your cozy reading chair, kicking up your feet and reaching for your new book that had just come in the mail yesterday. Frankie is in town meeting with a lawyer about the coke charge. He’d told you not to reschedule your appointments. He’d warned you he’d be out late. 

Everything is fine.

Just as you’re thumbing past the prologue, your phone chimes. 

Sighing, you rest your wine on a coaster and reach for your phone, really hoping it isn’t tomorrow’s client wanting to reschedule. 

“Frankie is sharing his location,” you read the notification aloud. 

Huh?

Your phone is ringing before you even manage to open google maps. 

It’s Frankie. “Hey, babe,” he interjects as you answer. “I hate to ask this of you, but I really need you to bring the jeep down to the lease. I’m stuck.”

“Wait, I thought you were in Fort Worth today,” you say slowly, trying to put it all together. The hunting lease that Benny and Frankie share is just south of Sweetwater, clear in the opposite direction of the law firm.

“I was.” Frankie sounds hesitant, almost as if he’s afraid you’re accusing him of something. 

You aren’t. You’re just confused. He’s three hours west of where you thought he was.

“I just stopped by to put out the cameras.”

“It’s barely August,” you reply, furrowing your brow and thinking hard. Doesn’t Frankie usually put the cameras out in September? You can’t really remember. 

Frankie doesn’t answer. He seems tense, like he’s wary of how you’ll respond.

You sigh and decide to let it go. Men and their deer hunting - you will never understand. 

“Okay, babe,” you haul yourself to your feet, glancing regretfully at your glass of wine. Once again, you’re grateful that tomorrow’s appointment had canceled on you - Sweetwater is an hour’s drive, and it’s already nearly 6:30. 

Briefly, you consider asking him if he’s talked to Benny, but you opt against it. Since South America, things have been a little strange there, and besides, Frankie had called _you_. As tired as you are, and as much as you don’t want to leave the house, you’re relieved that Frankie would reach out to you in the first place. 

It’s been so long since he’s even acknowledged your existence. 

“Are you sure my jeep will tow you out?” you ask instead. Really, there’s no sense in driving all the way out there if it’s not going to work. 

“She’ll make it,” Frankie sounds relieved to hear you agree. “All I need is a little traction.”

“Okay.” You try your best not to sound doubtful.

“Thank you so much, honey.” Your heart flutters at the endearment. It’s been a while since Frankie’s called you that. “I’m on the north forty, just as you cross the gate. I dropped you a pin.”

You laugh a little at that. “Yeah, I saw it.”

“Good.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “Drive safe. I love you.”

Your breath catches in your chest. “I love you, too, Frankie.”

Reluctantly, you swap your wine for a cold soda and hop into your jeep, making sure to bring along a shovel and your snow chains. You don’t bother to change out of your pajamas; Frankie is alone, you don’t need to stop for gas, and the lease is well secluded from the road. You’re not likely to meet anybody else. 

You turn the music up as loud as it goes, rolling down the windows and willing yourself to enjoy the warm summer air. 

An hour and change later, you’re feeling a little better - something about the wind in your hair and Aerosmith blaring on the radio has given you a little energy. You pull up to the welded pipe gate that marks the entrance to Frankie’s deer lease to find that it’s already open. Frankie is half-leaning, half sitting on the gate, swinging one leg contentedly. 

You smile as you approach him, dimming your headlights so not to blind him. Frankie can never be still - if he’s twitching, antsy, moving, you know he’s okay. 

He rises to meet you, raising his hand over his face to block his eyes, and you kill the jeep altogether. 

“Hey!” you call out your open window.

Frankie walks up to you, smiling huge for somebody who’d gotten his truck stuck out in the middle of nowhere, and you unbuckle, wondering how the hell he’d managed that, anyway. Sweetwater is basically the eastern border of the Texas desert, and to your knowledge, it hasn’t rained hard here in months. 

Seriously, guys. They are a perpetual mystery.

“Thank you for coming,” Frankie says as you shut your door behind you. Before you can even answer, he gathers you into a tight hug. He holds you like that for a beat too long, humming a little under his breath as he releases you, and you marvel again at this shift in his behavior. 

Hugs like this have been scarce to come by for a very long time.

Frankie pulls back, looking you over in the dim dusk light. “God, honey, you’re gorgeous,” he says. He’s still grinning. 

You briefly consider your striped pajama bottoms and ratty band tee, your unbrushed hair piled in a messy bun high on your head. Not that you don’t enjoy hearing compliments, but Frankie is a man of few words, especially lately. 

Something is just not adding up. 

“Frankie,” you say slowly, reaching for his hand. He offers it readily, squeezing your fingers in encouragement. “What’s going on?”

His face falls, like you’d known it would, and with that, a stone sinks in your gut. Frankie Morales is a terrible liar. Always has been, always will be. Even though you’d expected something was off, the confirmation still sends a bolt of dread down your spine. 

“Do you trust me?” he asks, all somber eyes and solemn expression. 

Something clinches painfully in your chest. You trust Frankie with your life. You trust him to be a good husband, a provider, to take care of the kids, if that ever happens. You swallow back grief. 

Lately, you’re not sure about trusting him with your heart. 

But he’s staring at you like he hasn’t in months, like he can read every errant thought that flickers across your mind, gripping your hand like you’re the only thing tying him to the earth, and the only answer you can possibly give is a soft, “Of course I do.”

Frankie’s lips tug into a small smile, and relief washes over you at having chosen the right answer. “Come and see,” he says, tugging at your hand. 

You follow him up the little slope. The sun has sank low to the horizon, and it’s a bit of a trek, dodging loose rocks and scrub brush that lies hidden in deep shadow. Frankie walks shoulder to shoulder with you, his hand never leaving yours. 

Above you, Frankie’s truck is parked at the top of the hill. 

You pause, realizing for the first time that you’d left the chains with the jeep. Frankie’s truck is definitely parked, not stuck.

You glance up at Frankie, who is carefully not looking at you. 

That’s when you hear the music. Frankie’s got the truck running, the windows down. Eagles’ _Peaceful Easy Feeling_ carries on the slight breeze. 

Your breath catches. “Frankie, what-”

“Wait, baby.” He looks down at you with eyes that are somber, but not sad. “Just… just wait.”

He urges you on to the top of the hill. He’d brought the camp generator out with him. The truck is strung up with fairy lights. They wind around the cab, up and over the hood and trailing down the edges of the bed. The tailgate is down, the truck bed stuffed full of fluffy pillows and blankets. To the left, a small campfire flickers bright orange against the deepening night, an ice chest and two camp chairs set up next to it. 

You stop and stare, taking it all in for a long, long moment. Your voice, when it comes, is hardly more than a whisper. 

“Frankie?”

He turns to you, casting a long shadow in the dying light. One hand comes up to cup your cheek, the other still clinging to yours. “Baby,” he starts, with that furrowed brow and the deep, slow voice that means he’s thinking hard about the words he’s saying, “I know things have been - well, they’ve been pretty shit lately.”

You each huff a little laugh at that. Pretty shit is an understatement, and you both know it. 

Frankie takes a shaking breath and continues. “And, well, you’ve been pulling more than your share of the load for too long.” He glances away, pursing his lips as if he’s ashamed to admit that out loud.

Gently, you tilt his jaw so that he’s facing you. “Hey,” you start, your heart melting under the gravity of his words. Frankie isn’t always open with his emotions, and getting even this much out of him makes you wonder just how deeply all of these things have been weighing on him. “It’s okay, Frankie. That’s just how marriage works. We carry the each other when the other one can’t.”

Frankie shakes his head vehemently. “It’s not okay,” he says fiercely. “It hasn’t been okay for a long time now.” He huffs a mirthless little laugh, still staring at you with eyes that are serious and solemn. “But I didn’t bring you out here to talk about all of the things that are shitty right now.” He runs his finger across your cheek, tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear. “I brought you here because I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you do for me. For, for this family.” 

Grief wells in your chest at the word.

Frankie notices, because he drops a gentle kiss on your forehead, just the barest pressure of his lips on your skin. “And also, it’s our anniversary,” he adds softly. 

Confused, you glance up at him, counting back the days in your head.

He smiles shyly, as if he’s anticipated you. “I know it’s not until Wednesday,” he admits, just as you come to the same conclusion. “But I also know that you don’t have to work tomorrow. And that it’s been far too long since we’ve watched the stars.”

Your eyes widen, and again, you start counting dates. “The Perseids!” you gasp, stunned that Frankie had remembered. “They peak tonight!”

“I know,” Frankie smirks, looking more like himself than he has in months. “I downloaded an app. It even has an alarm.” 

You giggle at that. You’ve always had a thing for stargazing, and Frankie has always had a thing for camping. On your third date, you’d mutually decided that these two hobbies coincided beautifully - obviously, you were destined to be together. You’d picked a location and he’d loaded up the truck. Together, you’d pitched a tent, drank too many beers, had awkward sex in the grass, and then promptly fallen into a fitful sleep, only to miss the peak of the meteor shower. 

It’s one of your most precious memories, and you and Frankie have often discussed trying it again, successfully this time. Life had always gotten in the way. 

Now, Frankie’s looking at you with soft eyes and an earnest expression, and you heart swells until your chest aches. “Thank you,” you say quietly, and he breaks into a smile, gathering you into a tight hug. 

“You’re welcome, honey,” he whispers into your hair.

He insists on roasting the hotdogs, and you let him, fishing two ice-cold beers out of the cooler. Your favorite, you notice, once again astounded at how much thought Frankie had put into this. You crack one and hand it to him. Frankie takes it with a smile, drinking deeply, exposing that pretty neck in a way that makes you eager to kiss your way down it. Instead, you plop down beside him on the ground, leaning against his knee in favor of taking one of the camp chairs.

“Comfy?” he asks as you look up at him.

“Totally.”

He winks at you, still wearing that gentle, love-struck expression until you casually point out that the hotdogs are burning.

Even charred, the hotdogs are still excellent. When you’ve finished eating, Frankie proudly supplies marshmallows and a pack of graham crackers. “It’s not an anniversary without chocolate,” he tells you as solemnly as he can get away with, and even through your laughter, you feel tears burning in your eyes. 

You and Frankie aren’t like this - sure, you’re kind to each other, and until recently, things have always been easy. But you’re both laid back, busy people, far more apt to show your love with little practical things than grand, sweeping gestures. The fact that Frankie Morales is pulling out all of the stops for this anniversary that you’d completely forgotten about, down to chocolate and a dinner under the stars, means more to you than you are capable of saying. 

You haven’t toasted marshmallows since you were a kid, and obviously, neither has Frankie. You’re both terrible at it, torching more than you manage to save, and you burn the hell out of your fingers as you try to pry one of the sticky little bastards off the spit.

“Ouch!” 

Frankie drops his roasting stick in the dirt and rushes to your side. “You okay?”

You snort. “Fine. Just singed my finger.” You hold it up ruefully. 

Frankie takes your hand carefully in his, holding the damaged finger up to the firelight. “Well, sweetie, fire is hot,” he informs you seriously, but his eyes are sparkling, playful. He blows gently at the blister. 

Something about the silly little gesture makes you shiver. 

Frankie seems to catch the shift in your mood. His fingers twine through yours, and suddenly, he takes a step forward, so close that your clasped hands are caught between your chests. “Honey,” he breathes, bringing your knuckles to his lips, pressing a quick, gentle kiss to each, and an extra on your sore finger. “Let me take care of you tonight?”

All of the air leaves your lungs. “Yeah, okay,” you answer shakily.

“Good.” Without warning, Frankie hauls you from your feet and carries you to the truck, making your head spin in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the two beers you’d just drank. He sets you down gently on the tailgate, and you straddle his waist as he moves to stand in front on you.

It’s fully dark now. Frankie is backlit by the flickering campfire, the soft glow of the fairy-lights behind you casting his face in deep shadow. Above you, a sky full of glittering stars. Behind you, _Layla_ plays softly from the speakers, not quite loud enough to drown out the evening thrum of cicadas. 

Frankie cradles your face gently in his hands, threading long fingers around the back of your neck. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers, and then he’s kissing you. 

It’s different than the last time he’d kissed you in the bed of the truck. That had been pure desperation, a drowning man clutching desperately at a lifeline, clawing his way back to reality by the heat of your skin. This time, Frankie’s kiss is soft and sweet, a slow, gentle exploration. Frankie is taking his time, savoring every moment with you, and the realization sets something burning deep in your core. 

When was the last time he’d paid you so much attention?

Suddenly aching for more, you tilt your face up to meet his, arching yourself into his chest and weaving your hands through Frankie’s hair. It’s long and silky, baby soft as it slips through your fingers, and you dig deeper, dislodging his hat in the process. 

Frankie gasps as you tug at him, and the hat goes flying. 

“Whoops,” you laugh against his lips.

“Honey, that hat has seen worse, I promise you.” Your enthusiasm seems to have lit a fire in Frankie, because his hands are suddenly everywhere, one roaming across your shoulders toward the small of your back, another snaking up your shirt to skim across your ribcage and cup your bare breast. He squeezes, teasing, and then bends down and takes your nipple into his mouth, suckling hard against the rough material of your shirt. 

“Frankie!” you squeal. There’s something deviantly appealing about feeling his hot, wet mouth through soaked cotton that awakens a desperate need for more contact.

His only response is a soft, “mmm.” 

Scrambling backward into the bed of the truck, you tug hard on his shoulder. Frankie gets the message, because he’s hauling himself on top of you, kicking off his boots and straddling you on his elbows, his mouth still locked to your breast. 

Your hands reach for the hem of his shirt, gripping at the soft heat of his sides. 

Frankie shudders at your touch. He’s always been ticklish there. 

You take the opportunity to yank his shirt over his head. 

He sits up on his knees, pulling the shirt over his head, wild hair and failing elbows silhouetted against the night sky. The stars are just coming out, the planes of his body flickering in the dim orange light, the shadows playing perfectly against the softness of his skin. Love and deep need flood you. 

“Frankie,” you find yourself begging, at a loss for words. You reach up to tug at his belt buckle.

He knows what you need. He always knows. “Not yet, honey,” he admonishes, catching your hands and kissing them gently. “Let me taste you, first.”

“Oh, god,” you think you might say out loud. 

Frankie scoops you closer to him, allowing you to wiggle out of your nightshirt. The night air is just cool enough that you notice the difference against your bare skin, and you feel your nipples pebble at the exposure, the one still damp from Frankie’s mouth.

Frankie notices, too. With his back to the fire, he’s got a better view of you than you do of him, and he presses that advantage, leaning over you until you’re backed up against the cab of the truck. He suckles one nipple, then the next, tongue swirling and teasing as his fingers pinch gently at your opposite side. The other hand slips down into your pajamas. 

“So slick for me,” Frankie murmurs as one finger dips gently into your folds. “Precious girl. I think you’re almost ready.”

“I’m so ready,” you answer, arching your hips up, and Frankie has mercy, pulling your bottoms down over your ass. You shimmy all the way out of them, kicking them away with a little more force than is strictly necessary. 

They join Frankie’s hat in the dirt, and you both laugh. 

Frankie kisses his way down your body, lingering at your collar bones, your breasts, the dip of your hips. The entire underside of your belly is ridiculous sensitive, and Frankie spends a lot of time here, peppering you with gentle, tickling little kisses punctuated with sharp nips that make you squirm into the blankets.

He skips right over your mound, the tease, nuzzling gently at your inner thighs, then further down into the hollow of your knees, and lord almighty, you never knew that there was anything remotely sexy about the back of a person’s knee. He snickers against your skin as you tell him so, sending a rush of goosebumps up your body as he makes his way back up toward the apex of your thighs. 

He slips one finger between your folds, pressing firmly against that perfect spot deep inside you. You can feel his breath hot and heavy against your skin, and his hair, soft and tickling as it brushes between your legs, and you think you might burst with anticipation. 

“Frankie!” you whine, wiggling against his hand in a desperate attempt to create more friction. 

He smiles against your leg. “Honey,” he breathes into your thigh, sending even more goosebumps tickling across your skin. “I’m just savoring this moment.”

That finger curls, once, then again, and then Frankie’s nudging between your folds, licking and sucking and pumping even more fingers deep inside you, and you lose all coherent thought. 

You gasp, arching your back to grant him access. His mustache scratches deliciously against your swollen flesh, his lips a gentle pressure against your clit, and you bury your fingers in his hair, desperate to occupy your hands. 

_“Now, now, now is the time, time, time,”_ Rick Wright chants, and Frankie matches his ethereal rhythm, eating you with broad, confident strokes of his tongue, suckling at your juices like a starving man.

Your body responds by writhing against him, desperate for more, for faster, to be filled. Pleasure and impatience curl in your toes, and caught incoherently between frustration and desire, you bang your head against the cab of the truck. 

Frankie stops, glancing up in concern, curls illuminated in the flickering firelight. “You okay?” he asks gently. You think you can see his lips glistening with slick. 

“Let me sit on your face.” The words are out of your mouth before you’re even aware you’ve spoken, but Frankie is grinning widely, already sitting up and shifting his position. 

“God, baby, I love you.”

You rise up on your knees, pressing your back flat against the cab of the truck as Frankie rolls so that he’s lying beneath you. There’s something wild and wanton about sprawling naked in the open on a hilltop, breasts and body exposed to the night sky. To the south, a coyote begins his mournful song.

You shiver. 

Below you, Frankie’s hands come up to stabilize your hips. “Alright?”

“Yeah,” you answer roughly. “Perfect.”

“Yes you are.” His voice is a whisper you aren’t sure you were meant to overhear.

Trembling, you pitch forward on your forearms, ass pressed against the cold back window of Frankie’s truck as he arches into you. Frankie reads you like a book, sucking, lapping, swirling his tongue in a rhythm that sets your hips jerking. He hums as your deepen the contact, his hands coming up to squeeze your ass, and between the vibration of his voice and the pressure of his palms against your curves, you find yourself gasping, leaning backward on your elbows and rocking against his mouth. Wildly, you notice that your jaw is butted up against Frankie’s crotch, his erection straining hard and needy against his jeans, and you press into it, inhaling sharply and nuzzling your face against the rough denim. 

Frankie bucks into you with a sharp hiss. His nose brushes against the sensitive bud of your clit, his mustache deliciously rough against your swollen folds, and you moan. He responds eagerly, pressing his fingers deep inside you and curling them just so, wrapping his lips around your nub and sucking and _shaking._

You come with a strangled cry, shattering so hard that your brain completely blinks off-line. You ride wave after wave of that orgasm, panting for breaths that seem to have left you entirely. It’s all the more intense because you hadn’t been ready for it.

You fall back into your body to the light of the stars, to Lindsey Buckingham crooning, _“Don’t stop, it’ll soon be here,”_ and to Frankie, warm and soft and cradling you in his arms. 

“Beautiful girl,” he nuzzles against the hollow your throat. “Do you think you’ve got another one in you?”

You’re feeling raw and soft and sensitive and deeply, deeply in love with this man. “Yeah,” you answer, reaching up to tuck your fingers into those wild curls. “For you, Frankie, I think I do.”

He kisses you gently, hands once again exploring your body. This time, you’re beneath him, and he hovers over you, allowing some of his weight to press you into the blankets. 

There’s something about the soft curve of your breasts and the soft curve of his belly, the gentle brush of his lips and the warmth of his giant hands as they ghost across you shoulders and ribs that sets you alight. It’s not an inferno, not this time, more of a throbbing, burning ember that glows deep in your core, and suddenly, you are dying to have Frankie inside of you. 

“Please,” you breathe, reaching again for his belt buckle. 

You don’t have to ask him twice. “Yeah,” he rasps, shucking himself out of his jeans. His erection springs free, and you catch it in your hands, tugging at it carefully. 

Frankie hisses. 

He lines himself up, pressing into you with aching slowness, giving you ample time to adjust. Your body stretches deliciously around him as he ever-so-carefully buries himself to the hilt. You clench your core, testing the pressure and position, and Frankie falls into you, laying chest to chest, cupping his fingers around the back of your neck and looking at you with wide, shining eyes. 

“I want-” he chokes as you release your innermost muscles. “I want to go slow, honey.” He brushes your cheek with a thumb. “Is that okay?”

“That’s perfect,” you tell him. In your languid, post-orgasmic state, you couldn’t fuck hard if you tried. 

Frankie smiles, pressing a gentle kiss to your chin as he rocks against you. It’s hardly more than a shift of his pelvis, but buried as far as he is, each little motion throbs tantalizingly at your core. It’s achingly delicious, more of a penetrative hug than actual sex, and you continue this way for a long time, a slow, steady pressure mounting as Frankie pulses deep inside you. 

The fire has burned low, the light dim and ethereal. Above you, the stars are bright, undiluted by the lights of the city. You reach up, scrambling for the switch that controls the fairy lights, and flick them off. 

Frankie laughs. “Sweet girl, you’re tryin’ to kill the mood.”

You buck hard, twisting roughly to force him onto his back. “I’m creating the mood,” you counter as you splay your legs to the edge of his, rocking hard against him.

Frankie sucks a sharp inhale, whether from the movement or from the light of the stars, you couldn’t say. 

“Do you see them?” you ask, rolling your hips deep and slow over his cock.

“I see them,” he answers breathlessly. One hand comes up to cup your breast, the other to brace your hips. As your eyes adjust to the dark, you notice that Frankie’s gaze is fixed firmly on you. 

Ridiculous man.

As one, your rhythm speeds. _Rocky Mountain High_ plays on the radio. You slide against Frankie, setting up an easy pace, still slow, but deeper and harder than the gentle pulsing of before. 

The song of the cicadas crescendos. 

Beneath you, Frankie’s eyes widen. “I saw one!” he gasps, cock twitching deliciously inside you. 

You laugh at the wonder on his face - from this position, you can just barely see his expression by the firelight.

“A meteorite?” you confirm, never letting up the lazy rhythm you’ve established. 

“Yeah,” Frankie pants. He fixes you with a desperate gaze. “Honey, you missed it.”

You shake your head. “I don’t think I’m missing a damned thing,” you tell him, shifting your weight in a way that forces a groan from him. “Did you make a wish?”

“Huh?” Frankie’s voice is ragged, detached in that way that you know means he’s getting close. 

You adjust your angle, pitching forward so that your bellies are pressing together and Frankie’s cock is brushing just perfectly against your clit. Plenty of time for wishes later. 

This time, it’s Frankie who cries out, pulsing into you with a soft moan of your name on his lips. You shift, gently riding out his orgasm, clenching around him until it’s you who’s falling apart. You collapse to your side, riding out wave after wave of gentle release. This orgasm is less intense than the first, but it lasts far longer, your mind floating away from your body, up and up and up until you are just fractals of pure light, at one with the stars. 

After an eternity, you notice Frankie shuddering beside you. “God, baby,” he breathes, rolling over to wrap his body around yours. He presses his lips to your temple, just breathing against your skin. 

“I love you,” you whisper into the hollow of his throat. For some reason that your pleasure-muddled brain cannot fathom, it is so, so important for him to know.

Frankie huffs a laugh. “Oh, precious girl,” he breathes into the shell of your ear. “I love you, too.” He swallows hard, rubbing at your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I’m sorry I’ve been gone for so long.”

You know he isn’t talking about South America.

You sit up on your elbow. There’s so much that you need to say, so many conversations that you’ve put off, but the words die in your throat. You won’t ruin this perfect moment with heavy discussions; those can come later. “It’s okay,” you tell him instead, brushing your fingers through Frankie’s curls. “I’m just glad you’re back.”

Frankie pulls you down, tucking you into his shoulder, and you nuzzle against his chest, breathing in his scent - smoke and beer and faint traces of cheap cologne, all mingled with sex and the wild wind. 

“I didn’t just see a lawyer today,” Frankie admits after a long, long time.

“You actually went to Fort Worth?” you ask, straining to stare at his face in the darkness. You’d assumed that had been a farce to get you here. 

Frankie is very still, his eyes turned away, looking up at the stars. “I did.” There’s something about the hush of his tone that stills you, and you settle, relaxing onto your back and resting your head on his arm.

Frankie cradles you closer. “I think I’ve been all over central Texas today.”

You laugh a little. “It sure sounds like it.”

The mood turns serious. You wait, pushing that burning curiosity to the back of your mind. Frankie will tell you when he’s ready.

“The lawyer is optimistic,” he offers after a long pause, tilting so that you can see his face in the dying firelight. His eyes are glistening, apologetic. “He thinks we can get it expunged from my record, if we play it right.”

“Good,” you sigh, closing your eyes in relief. That’s one burden lifted. 

Frankie grimaces, takes a deep breath as if he’s bracing himself. 

“And?” you prompt softly, knowing instinctively that Frankie sometimes needs a little help to get going. 

“And I saw a therapist,” he admits grudgingly.

Shock douses your body like a bucket of ice water, and it’s all you can do to keep your voice level. “Oh?” 

Okay, maybe it comes out as a squeak, but Frankie doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still staring absently at the night, his voice hollow and distant as he speaks. “Yeah. I mean, it sucks, don’t get me wrong. I hate it. It’s awkward. And stupid. But…” He turns to you, expression open and vulnerable in a way that seems uncharacteristic of him. “I know I need help, honey. And I want you to know that I’m serious about this. I want to be better for you.” He drops his gaze, allows his fingers to brush ever so gently against your lower belly. “And for anybody else who might need to depend on me.”

You choke, tears gathering hot and wet on your cheeks. After last time, Frankie had been adamant that he hadn’t wanted to try again.

Frankie thumbs them away. “I’m sorry I’ve been so checked out. It’s…” he swallows roughly. “It’s hard, losing -” he cuts off, shuddering, and you wrap your arms around him, dragging him in for a soft kiss. 

He gathers your face in his hands, wiping away your silent tears with gentle brushes of his fingers. “All I could think, baby, when I was down there -” his voice breaks, and he swallows hard, still looking you determinedly in the eyes, “Was that I had to get home. I had to come home for you.”

“Oh, Frankie,” you breathe. You’d known it had been bad, but hearing him talk like this, with his voice cracking and tears glistening in his eyes makes you want to pull him to your chest and never let go. “You don’t have to talk about it. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

“I know, baby, but I want to. We need to,” Frankie sniffs, smiling wanly. “Just, not right now. Not tonight.” He cups your cheeks and lays a careful kiss on your forehead. “Tonight is just for us, okay?”

You nod against his lips. “Okay.” 

“God, honey, I love you so much,” Frankie breathes as _Wild Horses_ plays on the radio. “You’re my wife for a reason,” he whispers into your ear, and your heart throbs with the rhythm of the song. You think to yourself that there’s no force on this earth, equine or otherwise, that could ever drag you away from this man. 

You curl into him, boneless and dead weary, and Frankie gathers you closer, wrapping you into his arms and tucking your face beneath his skin. 

Around you, the cicadas sing.

* * *

“Honey.” Frankie nuzzles his face beneath your chin, gently kissing you awake. 

“Mmm?” you manage. You’re suddenly aware of your legs tangled in blankets and a slight crick in your neck. The playlist had ended some time ago, the ethereal chirp of cicadas given way to the steady pulsing thrum of the katydids’ song, though even that has slowed.

“Look,” Frankie points up at the sky, which is alight with stars. Above you, the Milky Way sprawls across the horizon, stretching in brilliant splendor as far as you can see from east to west. 

“Wow,” you breathe, still hoarse with sleep. Even without the meteor shower, camping out is worth it for this view alone. 

A falling star streaks across the sky just as that thought occurs to you. Then another, then another. Frankie points out each of them, laughing delightedly when he can’t keep up. They’re coming faster now, from all directions, some lighting up the sky like comets, some _blink-and-you-miss-it_ quick. Most are a soft silvery color, but a few paint long trails of red or blue or green as they burn through the night.

Frankie has fallen silent now, still staring up in rapt wonder, tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth. You snuggle against his chest, grateful beyond words to share this moment with him. 

“Did you make that wish yet?” you ask softly. You’re not sure what it is about the night that forces your voice into a whisper, whether its a reluctance to break the silence or a reverence for the majesty of the sky.

Frankie presses a smile shaped kiss to your forehead. “Don’t need to,” he answers in a voice that is just as awestruck, just as hushed. “I’ve got everything I want right here.”

You are overwhelmed with love for this man. Your chest swells with it, your eyes suddenly burning with unshed tears. Quickly, you bury your face into the hollow of Frankie’s throat, as if by pressing closer to him, you can somehow communicate every emotion that words can never hope to encompass, all of your gratitude and desperation and fierce love forced into one simple gesture,

Frankie notices you shiver. “Are you cold, honey?” He doesn’t even wait for you to answer - you aren’t - he just wraps his arms around you and tugs so that you’re splayed on top of him. He drags a blanket up to your chin and tucks the edges around his thighs, sealing you into a warm, Morales-scented cocoon. 

Frankie is all soft body heat at your naked back, and you let allow your head to fall against his chest, his stubble tickling at your cheek. His arms are circling you, one hand coming up to cup your shoulder, the other resting gently at your hip. His fingers are rubbing tiny circles into the hollow of your pelvis. 

It feels nice in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with sex. It’s just a Frankie thing - always fidgeting, always tapping his fingers, never still. 

Above you, the universe continues to show off, falling stars blazing bright and brilliant against the pre-dawn sky, and you and Frankie crane your necks to watch, all bundled up in one another, sharing the same heat and air and just enjoying the performance. 

“Thank you,” you whisper after a long moment. “I know you did this for me.”

Frankie squeezes you into a tight hug, both hands coming to rest hot against your chest. “I did this for us, sweetheart.”

It’s a confession, an admission, and a promise, all at once. 

**Author's Note:**

> Music is a massive part of how I perceive Frankie Morales. If you’ve ever perused my tumblr (@disgruntledspacedad), you’ve seen all of my headcanons regarding this. Hit me up if you need his stargazing playlist - it’s a good one.
> 
> About the baby - this is an AU in which Frankie doesn’t have the new baby at home. Either way, I headcanon that Frankie and his girl struggled hard with infertility, and that in canon!verse, Frankie had resigned himself never being a dad right around the time that his wife got pregnant. Dealing with the fallout of all those emotions led to the coke and the strained marriage. Either way, Frankie Morales is already a bundle of angst and anxiety when we first see him in Triple Frontier, and I wanted to lend a little backstory to that. 
> 
> Yes, my Frankie Morales lives in Texas. No, I am not sorry for that. It’s the hat, guys.
> 
> This was a shameless excuse for me to practice my smut. I am determined to get better, folks. Bear with me.


End file.
